Delirium
by j'adore macabre
Summary: After a night of chasing a criminal, Holmes comes back to Baker Street senseless and wounded. In his moments of delirium he reveals to Watson how it was he became the way he is. Rating for subject matter. Slight slash or heavy friendship if you prefer.
1. Chapter 1

The sky was a dark grey and heavy rain beat against the window of the study, causing a dull throb in Watson's thigh where the Jezail bullet hit during his stay in Afghanistan. Holmes sat curled up on his armchair with his scrapbook of criminal records on his lap and briar root pipe in his hand, filling the room with the strong scent of Turkish tobacco. Watson sat at the chemical-stained desk, reaching across the plate of stale biscuits and cold tea to where letters sat piled up and speared through by the jackknife molded to the table.

"There's a letter here from Lestrade. He asks your help on a string of petty thefts." The Doctor told his companion as he held up the letter to the gas lamp and tried to read the message in its entirety around the ragged hole.

"Yes, I was wondering when he would ask for my assistance." Holmes mumbled as he skimmed over notes on the few of his unsolved cases. A frown worked itself around the pipe as he scanned over a particularly difficult case from years before we met.

"Why don't you take it then? I realize petty theft seems uninteresting to you but it's been awhile since your last case. It will give you something to do." Watson tossed the letter on to Holmes' lap, covering up the scrapbook.

He snorted and pushed the letter aside. "I've already solved it. The man is Thomas Winters. He's a small time thief, a pickpocket and nothing more. He is no use to me."

"Then wire Lestrade and tell him. You'll be doing London a favor."

"Lestrade wants evidence, proof as if I was an amateur detective that's hasn't helped him forty-three times over the last year alone." Holmes snort with some contempt as he put the letter aside.

"So do it for the people. Catch him without Lestrade's help if you want and take Clarke for the official arrest; he's always prepared to help you."

"Winters is not a smart man, he never covers his track well. Lestrade will soon catch on."

"And if he doesn't? What if Winters steals again and what if he resorts to murder? If not for Lestrade, at least think of the people." Watson implored, a feeling of victory already growing in his chest.

"No need for all of that, Watson. If you wish then I'll take it." Holmes rose to his feet and exchanged his tattered robe for his jacket and boots.

"Where are you going?" The Doctor asked, his eyebrows rose in surprise.

"To catch Winters. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Well, yes but—"

"Well then there's nothing else to do but go out the and catch him." He grabbed his hat and placed it at a jaunty angle on his head so that the brim sat low and almost covered his eyes.

"Just a second, Holmes, I'll come with you." Watson rose to his feet, wincing at the sudden twinge in his thigh.

He cast a glance at his friend's leg and smiled knowingly. "Nonsense, Watson. It should only take a moment and this rain does nothing for your leg."

He was out the door before Watson could protest any further. He sat back down with a sigh and rubbed the knuckle of his thumb over his lip, the moustache rough on the smooth skin. Gladstone shuffled his way over, slow with old age and the various experiments of Holmes' that taxed his strength, and sat down at the Doctor's feet to look at the rain beating against the pane then at Watson. A soft growl accompanied the crack of the dying embers.

"He insisted on going alone. You know how stubborn he can be." Watson frowned as he gazed out the window. A sudden thought sent a feeling of dread to pool in the pit of his stomach and the doctor jumped to tear open the desk drawer from its niche to find Holmes' revolver sitting atop the various notes of chemical formulas and sheets of violin music stored up over the years.

"Damn it." Watson stood and tucked Holmes' revolver in his trouser pocket along with his own before following out the door.

An umbrella was useless. The rain pounded from above with such a force that it felt as if it meant to destroy and then the wind blew it sideways so that anybody out staggered out of their intended path with the force of it and was immediately soaked if they were not already. Watson foresaw this and ignored the umbrella on his way out. In a matter of six seconds the rain soaked through his jacket and sent a constant shiver to run down his spine. The injured thigh throbbed worse so that the Doctor had to lean heavily on his cane, listing far to the right to take the weight off of it.

Watson had no idea where Holmes went, where Winters was. The most logical place to begin looking was the poorer side of London, the back alleys full of cutthroats and prostitutes who would do anything for just a shilling. The destitute gathered together wherever there was shelter, under awnings and holed up in the abandoned buildings that lined the dilapidate street. Watson stuck a hand in his hip pocket to finger the revolver and approached a man taking shelter in the threshold of an old bakery, The door lay in pieces behind him.

"Excuse me, sir." Watson raised his voice to be heard over the shrieking gale and pounding rain. He had to squint to see the blurry outline of the man, the hunched shoulders and the ragged buddle of clothing beside him.

"Aye, what do you want?" The man shouted back.

"I'm looking for a man named Winters. Have you seen him?" Watson drew closer to step under the torn awning but the man held up a hand to stop the Doctor.

"Get your hand off your revolver before you come closer, if you please."

"Of course." Watson replied and took his hand from his pocket. "About the man, Winters?"

The man held out a hand and didn't reply until Watson dropped a shilling into his hand, the rain failed to wash away the grime in the lines of his palms.

"I saw him running this way not long ago with two other men on his heels. If you were here a few minutes earlier you would have heard the gunshots. Looked like he got himself in a spot of trouble again." The man gave a brief laugh while Watson felt his heart drop.

"Which way did they go?" The Doctor asked, trying to keep a steady face.

"They turned down that alley there," The man pointed to the alley beside the dilapidated bakery, "but after that I can't tell you where they were headed."

Another shilling landed in the man's hand without thought and Watson walked quickly down the alley with his hand on his revolver, the rain lashing at his face and stung any exposed skin like a million tiny needles. Shaken to the point of collapse, Watson staggered around the darker part of London with its helpless souls and bodies walking around in a constant stupor but without any sign and no more word of either Holmes or Winters. He didn't stop until he heard the sound of a gunshot ring through the drumming of the rain.

"Holmes." Watson virtually screamed to be heard over the gale and listened intently for an answer or another gunshot.

There was another gunshot, fainter than the first and Watson ran as fast as his injured thigh would permit and didn't stop until he reached the end of the street where the water came up past his ankles and the mud collecting at the bottom threatened to steal the shoes from his feet.

"Holmes." Watson cried again, his voice strangled and hoarse with the force of it. A troubled feeling stirred in his chest and he heaved a leg from the mire of the streets only to stumble and graze his hand on the cobblestone. Looking up, Watson found his vision severely blurred. The tears were indistinguishable from the rain that ran down his face.

The Doctor stumbled through the sordid back alleys of London and through the plush back gardens of the rich until the rain let up to a light drizzle and the sun peeked through the thick grey clouds that still threatened to flood the world. At last, Watson realized it was better to return to Baker in case Holmes had already returned and was seated comfortably in the armchair, ready to laugh at Watson's trying night.

The Doctor limped wearily down the streets, his clothes stuck to him like a second skin and his frame trembling constantly. He had not even made it to the front door when a small boy burst from it and collided into him, nearly knocking the doctor off his feet.

"Here now, watch where you're going." Watson snapped. The exhaustion was getting the better of him but he could bring himself to feel guilty for it until he knew Holmes was alright.

"Sir Watson." The boy gasped out heavily. "It's me, Francis, one of Mister Holmes's lads."

Watson regained some energy at the sound of his friend's name. "Is that right? Tell me, have you seen him? Is he alright?"

"I don't know, sir. Constable Clarke came in with a bleeding shoulder and asked if Mister Holmes had come back. I came out to look for you while some of the other boys went to look for the Detective."

Watson peeled the saturated coat from his body and dropped it carelessly on the floor as he ascended the stairs to the study, noting a smear of blood on the wall and a partial imprint of a small hand level to his waist.

Clarke rose to his feet as Watson entered, paling slightly at the exertion. "Apologies, sir, I may have gotten some blood on your floor. I would apologize to Mrs. Hudson but I find she's not here."

"She away." Watson took his medical bag from the desk and motioned for Clarke to sit down. "What happened?"

"It all happened so fast, sir. I was at home when Mr. Holmes came to call on me, asking my help to arrest the man behind the string of thefts. The next thing I know, I'm face down in the streets with Mr. Holmes sprawled on top of me and gunshots ringing in my ears. He got up and staggered a bit but ran after our man. I realized I had been hit but I thought I could keep up. I ran after them but passed out soon." Clarke bowed his head. "I came here as soon as I could to see if the Detective had come back yet. This boy's been keeping pressure on my wound." Clarke nodded to a young boy kneeling beside Holmes' armchair, blood covering his hands.

"He may make a doctor yet." Watson gave a sad little smile and stripped the Constable to the waist of his uniform. "It's a deep gash that nearly punctured the carotid artery. It'll need to be stitched of course and you'll need a sling but you will be fine. What of Holmes, did you see where he was hit?" The Doctor asked calmly as he examined the wound. Even though he was visible calm, he could hardly hear for the blood rushing in his ears and could feel his stomach do constant flips in his stomach.

"It's hard to tell, sir, but I believe it was twice in the side. I saw him hold his head as well. I am sorry, sir. I tried to go after him.

Watson nodded mechanically but wasn't aware of the movement. A strange chill that had nothing to do with the rain was filling his body.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson came out of his room in fresh clothes, still trying to get his cufflinks on and saw Clarke standing by the door in one of Watson's shirts, one that Holmes had burned the sleeves of with his chemical experiments. A little blood spotted the collar and the Constable winced as he adjusted the sling but otherwise looked ready for action though the ghostly pallor of his skin suggested he might pass out again.

"Clarke, I would be glad if you stayed here in case Holmes returns on his own. I will take the boys, Francis and Williams, if they haven't anything more important to do." Watson looked at the two boys questioningly.

"Of course not, Sir." The boy, Francis, replied as he held his grungy cap in his hands in a manner of respect. "We're under the employment of Mister Holmes. We'd be terribly out of line if we didn't find him."

"I think that I should go with you, Sir. I feel responsible and I would feel worse if something terrible should have happened to him." Clarke said as he stood straight, the color draining even more from his face.

"I won't allow it. As your doctor, I implore you to do as I ask and remain here. If Holmes were to come back, I want someone capable to take care of him when I return. Williams, stay with the Constable; he looks far too pale." Watson took a dry coat from the battered armchair and threw it on before opening the door with a quiet creak. "I'll return in a few hours and check for his return. Let's go Francis."

"While you were working on the Constable, one of the boys came to report to me. There's not a sign of Mister Holmes anywhere but there's too few looking for him. If you like, I'll get some more boys out there." Francis asked as they walked down the seventeen stairs to the front door.

"Yes. Have them split up and look everywhere. I mean _everywhere_. Holmes' knowledge of these streets borders on frightening. If you find him bring him back to Baker Street and come find me at once. I'll be down by the Punchbowl to see if he's taken up lodgings there." Watson looked up at the grey clouds, residue of the night before.

A quick patter of feet told him that the boy had taken off in the opposite direction and would hopefully gather enough of the street urchins to make a small army. Watson was determined to find Holmes before the day was out even if it meant turning London upside down.

The Doctor was accustomed to visiting the Punchbowl but seldom alone. A quiet sense of apprehension filled his chest as he walked down the sordid alley, ignoring the beggar's with their hands outstretched, the muddy puddles soiling the bottom of his trousers. The tavern seemed different during the day. There was no one in the ring and only two men sitting at the counter, unfazed by the fact their mugs heavily stained with grime and the ale they drank was heavily watered down.

" 'Ello, Doctor. You're here early. What can I do for you?" A soft voice called from the far end of the bar. It was the barmaid. She was young for this sort of job and lacked the hard lines that time in the poorer streets gave others. She had long dark brown hair pulled back in a messy bun as she scrubbed the bar top with a ragged cloth.

"Hello, Shelly." Watson took his hat from his head like a proper gentleman and nodded a greeting to the other men seated with their drinks. "I'm looking for Holmes. Has he been here?"

One of the men audible cleared his throat and shifted on his stool.

Watson glanced over at him then back at Shelly. Agitation was etched in the lines of her face and she nervously played with the rag.

"Please, Shelly, is he here? Is he hurt?"

"I tried to call for you, make him go home. Honest I did. I even had Tom escort him but Mister Holmes gave him the slip. Tom went over there to see if he went home but no one was there."

"It's alright. You did fine but tell me, did he seem badly hurt?" Watson placed his hat against the bar and leaned against it anxiously so that Shelly took a step back so they were not so close.

"He was bleeding worse than usual. I thought he'd gone out his head too. He was muttering nonsense about someone named Mycroft and kept telling me how there was blood all over him, on his trousers. There was blood on his shirt and his hands were stained a little but, I swear to you, there was not a drop on his trousers."

Watson bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling with its rows of spider webs and layers of dust in search of patience and some level of calm. It took everything he had not to throw a stool across the room in frustration.

The Doctor let out a heavy sigh and felt some of the tension bleed from his shoulder. "Can you tell me where he was when Tom last saw him?"

"Down by Wilmore's. One of the little boys, Cartwright, set up station down there. Perhaps he's seen him."

"Thank you, Shelly." Watson pushed of the bar, grabbed his hat and turned to leave.

"Oh, Doctor." The girl cried as he had a hand on the knob, ready to leave. "I almost forgot to tell you; Mister Holmes said something about going back to 'where it started '. If that's any help to you."

"No but thank you."

_Where it started_. The start of what? What was it?

"Holmes, where are you?" Watson muttered through clenched teeth. The rhythmic tap of his cane on the street would have soothed him at any other point but now it only served as an irritating reminder that he was a cripple who could barely run, let alone walk for miles to search for a man that wouldn't be found if he didn't want to.

It was nearing noon when Watson made it to the Wilmore's medical practice and outside, sitting on the stairs was a boy in his early teens with a mop of tangled hair that may have once been blonde but was made brown by years of living in filth.

"Cartwright?" Watson asked, limping up to the boy.

"Yessir? You're Mister Holmes's friend ain't you?" The boy asked as he leapt to his feet. "What can I do for you, Sir?"

"I need to know if you've seen him. He's in a bad shape and I need to know where he is."

"Sure, I seen him only last night or early this morning, if you're real particular in time."

A jittery sort of relief filled the Doctor. "Where was he headed? Did he say anything to you?"

Cartwright pointed down the streets towards the docks. "He went that way. I went to see if he needed me for anything, being short on funds Mister Holmes is usual decent enough to give me a bit in exchange for a bit of work, but it was as if he didn't even see me. He kept looking at the sky and saying it wouldn't wash off the blood. I followed him for a minute but it was raining so hard I could hardly see. I wiped some water off me face and I looked up and he was gone. I looked for him but it's like he vanished, Sir."

Watson tapped his cane on the ground slowly, his brow furrowed in anger. Forcing himself to breathe slowly, the Doctor took a shilling from his pocket and offered it to the boy.

"Keep it, Sir." Cartwright said, shaking his head and holding up a hand. "I haven't earned it yet. I'll help you find him, Sir, and if the coin's still in your hand then I'll take it."

The Doctor nodded once and put the shilling back in his pocket, grateful for the company and new information.

The two walked together down the street towards the docks as fast as Watson's limp would allow. The hollow echo of the cane resonated off the brick sides of the houses lining the cobblestone street. It resonated deep within his chest, a hollow reverberation in the frustration and exhausted shell of a man that he was.

As soon as they got there, they found a large crowd standing by the front of one of the dockyards' buildings.

"What's going on?" Watson muttered, trying in vain to see through the throng. "Cartwright, see if you can't find out what's happened over there. I'll ask around and see if anyone's seen Holmes."

"No need; he's been here. Look." The boy pointed to a jacket lying pitifully outside the crowd. It was unmistakably Holmes' jacket for none other had burnt holes upon the breast and had such a specific pattern of stiches from various fights, falls and general lack of proper care.

The Doctor pushed his way through the crowd hearing whispers of suicide and murder as he went. His heart dropped and his eyes welled with uncontrollably tears as his throat closed and his stomach churned.

"God, no." Watson whispered, staring down at the battered, bruised, bloodied and saturated Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

Watson couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He was back in Afghanistan again with the heat searing any exposed skin and the dry air burning in his lungs as the dead and dying surrounded him. The wail of the barely living mixed together in horrid harmony until it was one cry of pain and desolation.

There was the General, barely clinging to life as he struggled to keep his bowels from spilling out onto the arid ground while he reached out with one trembling hand for someone, anyone to help, to end the pain. And there was the Captain Edwards with half his jaw and his upper lip blown away. He stared at the Doctor and gave a last shuttering cough, blood trickling from between his mutilated lips, his face frozen in a macabre smile. There was Holmes…Holmes?

Present and past had blended so spectacularly that when Watson's mind finally separated them it was as if he had been hit with a jolt of electricity. He shifted from the bloodied battle terrain of Afghanistan to the sordid docks of London with his friend lying on a pad of blankets and another covering up to his chest, the right hand poking from beneath with the fingers half curled as if paused in their motioning for Watson to come. There were rats, attracted by the body and the fresh scent of blood, barely kept at bay by the small crowd that emanated the foul stench of unwashed bodies and the reek of cheap alcohol.

At the sight of blood matting Holmes' head and trickling from between his lips, Watson's world seemed to shatter and spin madly on its side until he could take no more and, his stomach rolling painfully inside, he bent double and retched on the grubby boards.

The act of vomiting seemed freeing in an anomalous sort of way. It felt as if the egregiousness of the past emotionally trying hours had been diminished and the anxiety drained from him until there was nothing left but exhaustion to flood his system and drain him of dexterity.

"Are you alright, Doctor?"

Watson looked up, his head heavy and his limbs like lead, to see Cartwright leaning forward slightly so they were eye to eye. The boy's bright eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. Beside him stood a man Watson recognized as McMurdo, a regular fighter and one of Holmes' rivals from the Punchbowl. He wore a once white shirt over his barrel chest and under a tattered jacket and had a small scarf tied around his neck for the chill.

The Doctor shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as another wave of nausea come over him. His stomach ached, his throat burned and his mind reeled with the overwhelming thought of a monotonous life without the Detective. There would be no Holmes to set their rooms on fire and emerge from the plume of smoke with a roguish smile gracing his face, no one to coax a soothing melody from the battered violin at all hours of the night. There would be no Holmes to drag him on grand adventures and have them return unscathed yet turn around to get himself beaten bloody in mere fist fights then drag himself home for Watson to patch him up.

The Doctor retched again, his stomach feeling as if someone had bare knuckled it.

"You best sit down, Doctor." McMurdo said as he reached out to steady Watson.

"No, wait." The Doctor replied, grasping the fighter's well muscled forearm. Tears that he couldn't figure out whether they were brought on by the sudden act of vomiting or by a grief that he didn't want to admit welled in his eyes. To admit would be to acknowledge. "Please, tell me what happened."

McMurdo scratched at his shadow of a beard nervously as he glanced back at the procumbent form that was Holmes. "I don't rightly know." He replied. "Bill found him laying over in the water, kind of just lying there as if he'd just crawled out. He must have had one hell of a fight. Two bullet wounds in his side, a nasty cut on his head. Ambushed, if I had any say. No one man could damage him so badly without help and the dishonesty of surprise."

A groan passed clenched teeth and escaped through Watson's lips. "That's it then."

"Well, I suppose it is. Bill knows a bit about doctoring and sewed him up a bit and we've sent a boy out for a carriage to St. Michael's. All's left to do is wait."

Watson's head snapped up and adrenaline seemed to flood his system as his eyes widened with shock. "He's alive then?" He asked incredulously.

"Oh, yeah, he's hanging on. Luckiest man to ever walk, in my opinion. The carriage should be here soon to – speak of the Devil." McMurdo exclaimed as a carriage echoed through the hollow boards.

Two dockhands and McMurdo loaded Holmes carefully into the carriage using the blankets as a makeshift stretcher as the cabbie muttered complaints under his breath about dead men. After they had him carefully laid out on the seat McMurdo handed Watson Holmes' saturated jacket.

"You'll send a boy over to let us know how he is?" The Fighter said, shaking Watson's hand firmly in farewell.

"Yes, of course." Watson replied. Before he could climb into the carriage, the Doctor felt something pull at the hem of his jacket. Turning around he found it was Cartwright standing behind him, tears cutting through the grime on his check. For a moment Watson realized he had forgotten just how young the boy really was.

"Can I come along, Sir? Please, I won't be no trouble." He promised solemnly with a forlorn sniff, his eyes welling as he glanced at Holmes' body lying lifeless in the cab.

"Alright just sit up front with the driver." The Doctor replied. "Driver, take us to 221 Baker Street."

There was a slight grumble but then the driver snapped the reins and issued a quick cry to urge his horses on.

Watson stared at the pale form of Holmes, some semblance of relief coursing through his body as he watched the rise and fall of the narrow chest. The Doctor closed his eyes and ground the heels of his eyes into them until he saw stars. His eyes stung with tears he refused to let fall and his mind replayed the adventures that Holmes had dragged him along on. At the point in which his mind wandered onto the misadventure of the canary trainer, Watson realized that there was a slight pressure on his left leg and opening his eyes he found that Holmes had reached across the small space to lay a hand on his friend's lap. The Detective stared at the Doctor with wide glassy eyes, his mouth moving with silent words.

"Holmes, are you alright?" Watson asked, his voice rising slightly in pitch and volume as worry filled his chest and made his heart ache. "Say something."

"H-hanging." Holmes stuttered out as if all he was waiting for was Watson to give him permission to speak.

"Hanging? What hanging, Holmes?" Watson smoothed back the blood-matted hair, careful of the gash marring the right side of his forehand just at the hairline. "I'll find who did this and they'll hang. I promise you."

"No. He's dead, hanging from the tree like rotting fruit and his body's swinging slowly. It's so quiet I can hear the rope creak. His eyes won't stop staring at me." Holmes grasped Watson's wrist firmly.

"Who's been hanged? I don't understand." Watson pried his wrist from Holmes' grasp as gently as he could. "You're delirious, Holmes. You need to relax."

"The tongue! It's sticks out,swells up while the lips turn blue but it's gone in him. They've taken it." Holmes grasped Watson's jacket and dragged half his body onto the Doctor's lap. "They're in the house." He whispered frightfully then collapsed with force of his exertions, half his body sprawled across his companion's lap.

Watson pressed his fingers to the other's neck for a pulse and found the skin to be hot to the touch and the heart beating sporadically. His own body grew cold and the hairs rose at the frightening thought of the possibility of Holmes not surviving the one case in which Watson had not accompanied. With his thigh throbbing painfully, he managed to lay Holmes back onto his side and peeled back the faintly damp shirt to examine the wounds under the bandages on his side and the small abrasions marring his lean body. Scars criss-crossed his body yet Watson found them strangely alluring perhaps because each told their own story.

The carriage rattled violently as it came to a stop and the Doctor could see the street urchins running along beside it, stopping when it did. There was a look of quiet despair that seemed plastered on their faces as they stared back at Watson through the dirty glass. They looked like London's destitute version of altar boys as they stared reverently at the Detective. They half expected Holmes to burst from the doors, bloodied and bruised but with a smile on his face as he mocked them for their worry even as the tenderness and pleasure of such attention showed in his voice. When he did not, they removed their tattered and worn caps from their heads and waited like little sentinels.

"Now what, old boy?" Watson whispered as he glanced over at Holmes. "This is the part where you smile and reassure everyone. What do we do? If you don't play your part then we can't play ours."

Holmes' eyelids fluttered a bit but there was otherwise no response. Watson inhaled slowly and opened the door, preparing act as if this was just another mishap of the Detective's.

AN- Horrible ending, I know but I had to break this up somewhere else I'd overload you with tons of pages. Warning: The next chapter contains heavy amount of angst and suggestion of violence.


	4. Chapter 4

_I realize that there are parts that may not make perfect sense but that's the point; he's delirious. I could make another chapter set when he's a child to explain it in detail if you want it. It would have to be tweaked a bit and not go word for word based on this chapter. Please, read, enjoy and review…_

The children lay in a heap on the tiger skin rug in the center of the Study, their heads nodding in exhaustion as the soft glow from the fireplace lit up their faces. Clarke stayed at his own request, choosing to sit on the chemical stained armchair with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles while his face twisted with a pained expression that marred his usually pleasant features.

Watson sat on a simple straight-backed chair beside his bed where Holmes lay—his own being far too cluttered with various bottles and pieces of evidence.

The Doctor watched while his friend groaned and bit his lower lip in pain as the chloroform began to wear off. Holmes was so swathed in bandages and covered with bruises and abrasions that he was nearly unrecognizable as the energetic Detective, radiant with reckless life.

As Watson dug the heels of his hands into his eyes until star shone behind his lids, Holmes' eyes cracked open and he wearily brought his left hand up to see the middle and ring finger splinted and blood crusting between the fingers in in the lines of his palms. Glancing from the bandages covering his body to the blood that stained Watson's hands, the Detective poked his tongue between his lips to moisten them as his mind turned sluggishly and churned out inconsequential theories.

"Have you killed me?" Holmes asked softly, his voice cracking from disuse.

Watson's head snapped up as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the edge. He grasped Holmes' uninjured right hand and stroked the Detective's hair with the other, considerate of the carefully stitched gash and massive bruise at the hair line.

"No, Holmes. I could never. Look, I've stitched you up. Don't you remember what happened?"

"I don't think I can forget."

Watson sighed wearily. "You have a fever." He rose to his feet and let his hands hang limply at his sides. "I'll get a compress for you and see if we can't bring it down."

Holmes lay silent for a moment, simply watching as Watson wet a cloth in the basin beside the bed and pressed it gently to his forehead.

"Are you angry?"

Watson looked at his friend, startled by the question. "Of course not. Why would you think that?"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone out."

"Don't apologize, old boy. In fact, I'm the one who should. I shouldn't have asked you to go out. I should have gone with you."

The Detective shook his head. "It's my fault they're here, Mycroft. If I hadn't gone to the taverns, listened in on that conversation, he would still be alive and no one would be after us." Holmes turned his head and stared past Watson to look at the light from the lantern falling against the windowpane. "He never should have tried to go to the Yard." He said under his breath.

"Look at me, Holmes." The Doctor held his friend's head between his hands so their eyes met. "What's my name?"

Holmes looked at him quizzically. "Mycroft." He answered simply. "Why did you use our last name?"

"Where are you?"

"This is ridiculous." Holmes brushed Watson's hands away weakly. "You know where we are. Stop fooling around and help m—" He stopped short and looked around fearfully as a small creak sounded outside the door.

Watson got up to investigate it but Holmes found a sudden reserve in strength and held the Doctor's right arm in a painful grip.

"Don't move." He hissed in both pain and fear. "They can't tell it's a room from out there."

Watson lay a soothing hand on top of the ones Holmes had gripping his shirt. "Alright, old boy. Calm down." He sat back down and adjusted the grip so they were essentially holding hands.

"We have to wait them out. That's all." Holmes said, panting as the clean shirt Watson had dressed him in became damp with sweat.

"Hol—Sherlock, tell me exactly what happened when you went out."

Seeing the Detective so high-strung of this apparently traumatic childhood event made Watson feel as though something was exceedingly wrong with the world. This was not the calm, calculating Detective that feared nothing and sought only answers. This was not the Holmes that Watson was used to but a childlike embodiment complete with the notion that something familiar was a form of protection. Perhaps if Watson could get Holmes to express exactly what happened and quickly then maybe he could have a peaceful recovery.

"I went out like you asked to get the chemicals for the experiments but I cut through the alley and had to go through a tavern. There were two men sitting in the back and I heard them speak of a murder and robbery. One said he had buried the body behind the old church. I didn't mean to hear but I did and when I tried to back away they saw me. I didn't think of anything but to run straight back here. Forgive me. He's dead."

"No one is dead. We're alright." Watson went to sit at the edge of the bed, still holding on to Holmes' hand.

"No, William's dead." Holmes groaned. "When I went to find you I saw him hanging from the tree, his tongue cut out. He tried to go to the Yard for me but they got him first and now they're here. It's my fault. It's my fault." He repeated again and again in an agonized moan until Watson held him close and buried his face in the Detective's neck.

"It's not your fault. You did what you thought was right. We'll make it through this." Watson said in calming voice.

Holmes lay quiet in Watson's arms, his boy trembling as he clutched the Doctor's suspenders in some misguided notion of safety.

They sat that way for some time but Watson didn't bother to dwell on his stiffening muscles or the wet pot on his shoulder where Holmes was resting his head.

"Bang." Holmes whispered in Watson's ear.

"What was that?" He asked, not sure he heard correctly.

"Can't you hear it? It's gunfire. There…again."

"What's happened? Tell me what's going on."

Holmes turned his head so he could look at Watson and gave a sad little smile. "Don't you know that sound? William's son shot them. Mother always said he was the best shot." He looked at the Doctor with a fearful expression etched in the features of his face. "What will we do?"

Watson racked his brain for a suitable answer. "We have to go to the police." He said after a second's pause.

"There might be others in town involved. What if they try to come after us?"

"Don't think on it anymore. I'll take care of it." Watson smoothed down the tangled mess of Holmes' hair. He ghosted a hand over the bandages and sighed. "How badly does it hurt?"

"I…don't know. I don't remember getting these." He looked up at Watson with a puzzled and frightened look in his eyes. "I've become exhausted, Mycroft. I can't keep my eyes open any longer and I fear even the catastrophe of tonight is not enough to keep me awake. Stay with me, if only for tonight."

"Of course." Watson allowed himself to be pulled onto the narrow bed where he lay on his side with Holmes firmly pressed against him and the Doctor's chin resting atop the bird's nest of greying hair.

Holmes had a hand firmly fisting Watson's shirt as he tucked his head in the crook of his friend's neck. "It was the cabbie behind the church. They murdered the cabbie for a gambling debt and stole everything from his corpse that was of value." He murmured.

"Don't think of it anymore. It's over."

Holmes shifted a bit and exhaled slowly, almost a yawn. "My lack of reasoning killed a man. I failed to see all sides and there were consequences. Therefore, I don't think I should ever forget. It won't happen again." He said with no small amount of conviction.

"That's good, Holmes. Very good." Watson yawned quietly, the type of emotionally draining exhaustion settling over him.

When Watson woke he found Holmes sitting up, leaning back against the headboard with his pipe set between his teeth as he looked over the morning paper. His skin was a bit flushed but was no longer hot to the touch when Watson touched him gently.

"So good to see you awake at last, Watson." Holmes said with a slight smile as he looked down at the Doctor.

"Just once I'd like to see you laying the way I left you." Watson sat up as he rubbed at his eye with the heel of a hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Like new thanks to your wonderful skills as a physician and a bottle of laudanum young Cartwright was thoughtful enough to bring over."

Watson leaned over and ran his hand under the shirt, over the smooth skin beneath. Sherlock held up the garment as he was supposed to while Watson checked to make sure the bandages and stitches were as they should be.

"Do you recall last night?" John asked as he tugged the shirt back down.

"Not at all." Holmes replied with a shrug. "Don't take on so." He said at the saddened expression on Watson's face. "We've seen much worse."

"For those of us that remember it was worse." Watson said, something of frustration and sorrow coloring his voice.

Homes frowned thoughtfully as he stared at the thin pillar of smoke his pipe emitted. "I remember going out and some sort of scuffle at the docks but there's nothing else. Odd. I can't recall what I went out for." His brow furrowed and the look in his eye darkened but he masked it as he looked at his friend. "I suppose you'll fill me in later but not now. Now, Clarke and the boys are going to surprise us with a cake. Hardly a surprise when you smell of baked goods and have flour on your sleeves."

"Holmes, we—"

Watson was cut short as the Irregulars burst into the room, two of them carefully balancing a cake between them. Clarke stood behind them, an apologetic smile on his face as he muttered something of replacing the food.

Holmes put on a smile and laughed at their juvenility as he thanked them in his own way. Watson politely smiled at the praise of his skill but cast glances at Holmes whenever he could.

He would never tell Holmes of the confession that night and if the Detective remembered it then he wouldn't speak a word of it either. Watson would shove the event in the back of his mind and would remember it only vaguely, an afterthought, whenever Holmes was on the case of a particularly dangerous criminal.

Winters was found dead the day after the incident. In trying to rob a house, he was shot and killed.

End.


End file.
